


A Dark Way of Living

by Rector



Series: Mycroft: The Early Years [5]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25781611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: This is the continuance of the young Mycroft series. If you have not read at least the first story in the series, I recommend you do so or a great deal in this story will make no sense.
Series: Mycroft: The Early Years [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/549928
Comments: 24
Kudos: 27





	1. A murder is announced.

Valerian Zubov died in the early hours of my twenty-fifth birthday. It was 1993 and as the clocks rolled past midnight into my natal day; my Russian friend was breathing his last, deep beneath the cold Welsh ground.

###

I was at my tailors when my mobile phone rang.

"Holmes." I spoke softly, even though Poole's fitting rooms were relatively soundproofed.

"Lucy Blackwater." Her no-nonsense voice filled my ear. Ms Blackwater was one of the old guard, having joined the department during the early part of the Cold War, shortly after Sir David Bonneville became director. It was rumoured that the lady had once had an affair with a member of the Royal family. I doubted this for the simple reason that Black Widows usually killed their _amorato_ after mating.

"Mycroft, Valerian Zubov has been found dead at the bottom of a Welsh coal mine and the Russian Ambassador is having a fit."

" _Dead?_ " Swiftly, I ran through a mental inventory of accredited Russian diplomats currently resident in Britain. There was a surprisingly high number of them now, especially since the Wall had come down in Berlin and we were all friends again. Zubov was near the top of the list in terms of influence.

"A mine near Merthyr Tydfil, almost half-a-mile deep. He's been dead for at least twelve hours," Blackwater sighed, no doubt anticipating the tsunami of paperwork Zubov's demise would cause.

In his late fifties and one of the old Soviet problem children, Valerian Zubov was, or, now that the man was decently dead, had been, a thorn in everybody's side, regardless of what side that might be. The Russian proletariat loved him because he brought an illicit touch of old imperial charm to the grey and grim Soviet façade, while the unremittingly suspicious Soviet secretariat hated him for the same reason. The West Europeans encouraged Zubov because they knew he infuriated the Soviet _politburo_ , while the East Europeans tolerated the man because he finagled an endless stream of Western capital towards the rebuilding of the post-Glasnost Eastern bloc. Zubov had been too useful to be removed and yet too dangerous to be ignored. Until last night, at any rate. My main task would be to predict, observe and analyse the ripples his death was likely to cause; all part of my job as Bonneville's understudy.

Sir David Bonneville, my boss and head of an anonymous, though highly specialised and powerful department within the Home Office, had spent almost the entire summer in various locations beyond British national waters, his counsel being of critical importance at the ongoing Helsinki peace-keeping summit. This had required the larger part of his time since the end of May and, as he was no longer a young man, had taken most of his energy as well. That he felt able to leave both his department and the nation to my novice housekeeping spoke volumes for my ongoing advancement and learning.

I had been employed as Sir David's deputy for just on three years by this point and, heading into my middle twenties, I was beginning to feel I understood at least part of the role into which I had ingenuously stepped, straight out of Oxford. With every new insight gained, I could feel naiveté slough from my thinking, my ability to assimilate larger and more complex problems becoming a tangible thing. In the last three months, I'd dealt with more and more of the problems that would normally have crossed Sir David's desk, which was just as well given the ramifications of Zubov's death and potential murder, on British soil.

Despite our age difference, I had rather liked Valerian. Beneath the incorrigible showman lay something of a philosopher and a philanthropist and a damn fine chess player. I suspect the key reason his Russian overlords kept a close eye on him was to ensure that he didn't become too popular. Momentarily regretful for his passing, I wondered which of his many enemies had finally bumped him off.

"What," I asked La Blackwater, racking my brain for a rationale, "was Zubov doing in Wales?" His presence there had to be connected to the rising tide of dark-red Socialism fermenting itself into a frenzy since the recent political decision to close the deep mines. They simply were no longer sufficiently profitable to remain a going concern and thousands of miners in England's North and, of course, in the Welsh coalfields, were shortly to be done out of their livelihood. Though how my deceased Russian friend came to be at the bottom of a Welsh mineshaft was a mystery. I didn't particularly like Wales; too many dark hills and unfriendly zealots.

"Apparently, he had chums in the local community, though what he was doing down a bloody mine in the middle of the bloody night is anyone's guess." Lucy Blackwater sounded increasingly jaded. It was hardly surprising, given that one of her fundamental tasks was to monitor foreign diplomats on British soil. If she'd really lost track of Zubov before his death, difficult questions would be asked. Possibly by me.

"Do we know how he died?" I hoped Valerian had gone as painlessly as possible.

"He was shot, Mycroft. In the chest."

Not painlessly enough. I frowned at the floor, wondering who had decided it was time for the old radical to be eliminated.

"I'm having someone bring the details and Zubov's file to your office. Let me know when you've applied yourself to the situation." Ms Blackwater's tone suggested I had better get a move on. Situations like these could explode into full, crippling scandals within an hour, especially if the international news organisations got wind of it. I needed to assimilate the relevant information and recommend a way forward long before the end of the day, as if I didn't already have enough to think about.

Fortunately, I had made use of one of the departmental cars and the Jaguar waited for me just down the street. In seconds, I was on my way back to Whitehall.

###

The day had begun so promisingly. The third week in October had rolled around and I was celebrating the autumnal equinox and my birthday with the final fitting of a new suit. I had several decent ensembles by this time and felt I was prepared for almost any sartorial occasion. My latest prize was a very nicely fitted charcoal superfine, though I had no idea how soon it would be put to sombre use.

Planning to collect the thing during an indulgent lunch break, my morning thus far had been filled with a mundane review of the key overnight intel traffic before an evaluation of a soon-to-be released film purporting to show how the British security services dealt with internal and external terrorist activities. Naturally, before it could be released, someone had to appraise the thing for any accidental truths – a cushy job you might suppose, but everyone else was busy. Such Hollywood productions were usually tedious, inevitably portraying MI5 and MI6 as either James Bond territory, or something languishing in the dark ages, when the reality was neither. Both of our national security 'firms' were rather on the dull side, but neither employed idiots: our department saw to that. Not even the directors of these worthy institutions had a clue that Sir David or I had occasionally vetoed a potential applicant: _Quis custodiet ipsos custodies_ and all that.

Thus far, the film was predictably excessive, though there was one small note which gave me pause, where an interrogation took place in a gloomily lit basement with mirrored walls. This was a touch too close to fact and I frowned as I pondered whether to let it pass or not.

"It's always better to let the air get to such stories, Mycroft." A deep male voice issued from somewhere behind me.

In a heartbeat I was on my feet, poised to protect myself the best way I might in such a confined space. My alarm was not lessened by the speaker standing in the shadows at the door. If he had a gun, I was done for. I could feel the skin around my eyes tighten as I readied myself for an open fight. _Who was it?_ _How had he breached departmental security?_ I was grimly determined my self-defence training would not be wasted.

"No need for that, boy." A laugh wheezed into the room followed by a tall, heavily built man stepping into the projector's flickering beam. His partially lit features were immediately recognisable from old photographs and the single moderately sized oil painting hanging in my parent's house. Allowing my stance to ease slightly, I suspect I looked more astonished than fierce.

"Uncle _Rudy?_ "

"In the very flesh." Rudolf Henry Alston Holmes, my father's older brother, edged further into the faintly dancing light as the film's credits rolled on unwatched. Leaning down, I pressed a button to kill the screening. I hadn't seen Uncle Rudy for a long time, not since the fire at Musgrave, though both Sherlock and I had heard stories about his odd escapades and unsociable manner. In his late fifties now, he was long believed to be in the States, doing something political in Washington. What the hell was he doing in Whitehall?

A thin smile stretched his mouth. "To answer your unasked questions, Mycroft. I'm here at the behest of your director, and I arrived last night. To your other question, I shall respond with this," he held up an electronic key card, a twin to one I had in my jacket pocket. This explained the why, the when and how, though not yet the what for.

"There's an east wind blowing, Mycroft, and Sir David felt you might benefit from my counsel. Shall we lunch at my club?"

###

My time was usually too occupied for a lengthy lunch, though today, of all days, I had made plans involving a visit to my tailor followed by grilled beef and a decent bottle of claret at Le Gavroche. Apparently my desires would not be met today as we headed by car to Rudy's club on Pall Mall. I knew of _Diogenes_ by reputation only, though it seemed a fitting watering hole for the black sheep of the family. The club was considered archaic by contemporary standards, never advertising either its services or membership. Very few Londoners even knew of its existence; the only indication of its social entity was a discreet brass plate near the front entrance of a neo-classical Portland stone edifice. It might just have easily housed a firm of solicitors.

"Say nothing. Make no sound until we are in my private rooms." Rudy touched an index finger to his lips before strolling into the main lobby, greeting the uniformed steward with a polite nod. I observed them exchanging several hand gestures, clearly some form of silent communication, after which, with a courteous nod and a smile, we were waved towards a broad central staircase. I followed my uncle to the second floor where he produced an ornate brass key and unlocked an unmarked wooden door.

The room within was quite large, with high, ornately fretted windows situated just below a cased oak ceiling. The wainscoted walls were mostly covered by tall, well-filled bookcases, and there were several small tables and a number of old leather armchairs, a layout suggesting a history of late-night meetings. Four small crystal chandeliers hung in the corners of the room, though there were also several ruby-shaded plain glass table lamps scattered around the place, probably more conducive to intimate conversations than a fully-lit room. At one end was an opulent mahogany writing desk with an inlaid leather top, while at the other, a baroque gilded fireplace and a second door. The place held a faint chill, as if it was often left unused. The place was vaguely grim and smacked unfashionably of the Belle Époque. I felt I had sufficiently masked my disparaging thoughts but Rudy's wheezing laughter intimated otherwise.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it, Mycroft," he said, closing the door firmly behind us and heading towards a drinks table where he proceeded to pour out two generous measures of malt scotch. Handing one to me, he indicated I should sit.

"It's always useful to have a variety of bolt-holes my boy." Rudy sipped his scotch. "This place is outmoded in the extreme, but it has its uses. We won't be disturbed or overheard."

Drinking hard spirits on an empty stomach had never been my idea of pleasure and so I sat in one of the cold armchairs and waited to learn the real purpose of this meeting.

Reaching across to a nearby telephone, my uncle pressed a single button and murmured several lunch-like words before replacing the handset in the cradle and settling his eyes on me. It was the first time we'd had an opportunity to meet as adults and while I could see some lines of family resemblance in the shape of his features, I noted his eyes were very like my own: dark and direct. I wondered what he made of me. I also wondered why he was really in London. Lowering my gaze, I found myself looking at his hand holding the glass. I saw something odd but my attention was dragged back by a polite cough before I could be sure what it was. Rudy was staring at me intently, waiting.

"Why are we here?" I asked, leaning forward, partly curious, partly irritated. "How am I involved in whatever it is you are here to do? I have no time to play games, Uncle, so please get to the point."

Swirling his scotch and inhaling the aroma, Rudy blinked deliberately. "It's about your sister."

###

Lunch with my uncle had been both profoundly illuminating and deeply troubling.

Firstly was the jaw-dropping revelation that my sister Eurus was not dead, as the entire family had firmly believed for the last eleven years. She was, in fact, very much alive and about to be transferred to a high security penal complex for the criminally insane, known only as _Sherringford_. Apparently one required an extremely high security clearance to hear that name and had I not been quite so dumbfounded by the news, I might have paid more attention to that little snippet of knowledge.

Eurus, my genius, murderous baby sister, had not died in a fire at the special needs centre to which she'd been sent as a child after she'd torched our family home. Instead, she was alive and kicking, and headed to what Rudy described as a maximum-security 'black site' establishment. None of this eased my many concerns, but I recognised the truth in his narrative. Nor was he overstating things when he said the knowledge had to remain strictly between he, Sir David and myself: my family could not possibly know that Eurus was alive; she was far too dangerous to them.

I immediately thought of my family ... my mother. If she knew Eurus was not dead but incarcerated ... but as Rudy explained, he, Sir David and now myself, were embroiled in a conspiracy of silence: we were damned whichever direction we took.

"And you're informing me now because?" I left the question hanging. There was clearly some reason Sir David had asked my uncle to tell me and tell me now, at this precise moment in time. But what reason?

"It's time you took over your sister's guardianship, Mycroft." Rudy removed a slim cigar case from his pocket. The worn silver gleamed in his fingers and once again, I saw something on his little finger that seemed out of place so that I looked more specifically. It appeared to be a tiny sliver of red nail varnish.

"I took her away after the fire at the Hall; your parents simply could not handle the fact of either her incredible intelligence or her pathological compulsions. If I had not immediately placed her in a secure unit, both you and your brother and even your parents, would eventually and inevitably have been killed." Rudy looked sour and shook his head. "A bad business, Mycroft," he muttered. "Very bad."

"Eurus will be seventeen by now," I watched the expression on his face. "Is there no possibility of her rehabilitation?"

My uncle was silent for several seconds. "The reason she's being moved to Sherringford is because she's already set another two fires at her present place of confinement and has savagely attacked several of the custodians. Far from attempting to re-integrate into normal society, your sister is becoming increasingly violent: even as her genius becomes more formidable, so too do the devils inside her." Sighing, Rudy looked every one of his fifty-odd years. "Unless we decide upon a terminal option, there's nowhere else for her to go." He pursed his mouth. "I've been her protector since she was six," he said. "For more than a decade, I've done my best to keep your sister out of harm's way. I've defended her from all those who saw her as nothing but a problem to be removed, including herself. But it's time for me to pass the responsibility onto you, my boy, though it is a poisoned chalice at best and, for their own good, not one you can share with another living soul."

 _A terminal option_. I had heard and used this term several times in my three years working for Sir David. Rudy was as good as telling me that it was either this, or I would have to live with the awfulness of fratricide. The weight of unaccustomed personal responsibility sat heavy in my chest. I was perfectly prepared to die, or kill, for Queen and country, but now I was being asked to show a different kind of mettle, to maintain a monstrous secret from and on behalf of those closest to me. My inner qualms must have been evident as Rudy looked away, giving me time to compose my thoughts.

Bonneville had never concealed the darker parts of his role, though until now, he'd mostly taken it upon himself to manage the bleaker aspects. By sending my uncle to me, Sir David was also sending a message. I took a deep breath.

"What do you want me to do?"

Rudy extracted a miniature computer disk from his breast pocket and held it out. "Everything you need to know is on this. Memorise the contents and then destroy it. Nobody beyond yourself, Bonneville or I can ever be allowed to know the truth about your sister. For the good of your entire family, for the good of the world, Mycroft, it is of critical importance that Eurus's continued existence remains a secret. Do you understand?"

A coldness crossed my soul. I understood.

There was a gentle knock at the door as the lunch my uncle ordered finally arrived, though by now, I had precious little appetite.

###

Even though my heart was no longer in it, I undertook the more pleasant task of collecting my new suit from Poole's. I had barely got the thing on when the Black Widow called me about Valerian Zubov. The man's file was waiting on my new desk by the time I returned. Given the day I'd had so far, I wondered if I might have offended some deity or other, though on the balance of probability, the remaining hours of daylight were unlikely be worse than those just past.

During Sir David's absence, my workload had reached such proportions that the small office next to his was no longer sufficient to meet all my requirements, so I'd annexed a second and larger office on the other side. It was irritating having to move from one location to the other with Sir David's office in the middle, but I had no desire to sit at his desk unless it was to sign letters or take the occasional meeting. My new office was mostly empty, though it had a much larger desk and the fastest and most powerful computer the technical experts in my department could build to my specifications.

There was nothing significant in Zubov's file to suggest he went to Wales for political reasons and in any case, from what I knew of the man, it wouldn't have been his style. If Valerian was making a political statement of any description, it was more likely to be bold, brazen and in the full light of the national media; hard to accuse him of spying when he made such an outrageous spectacle of himself on the world stage.

I sat back at my desk, my thoughts miles away. Why had Valerian gone to Wales? It must have been to meet someone or do something in person, something he could not trust to a proxy. If he'd gone there for a meet, he'd done so in such secrecy that it would have to be for some significant reason to him: political or otherwise. If he was there to _do_ something, what could it have been? To look at some property, perhaps? Wales was noted for its rugged beauty, though the sprawling pitheads of Merthyr were hardly scenic. I buzzed through to Euan McKay in the main office. He'd become something of a friend since I joined the department.

"Hello Mycroft. I thought you were planning on a long lunch and a quickie with your favourite tailor?" A bright chap, Euan, but lacked any civilised qualities. His attempts at humour were best ignored.

"Are we able to lay our hands on Zubov's financials?" I sat back and stared once more into thin air. If Zubov had planned on buying property of some sort, _or_ ... another thought crossed my mind, or perhaps ferrying funds to some disruptive socialist group bent on harrying the government, there might be a clue in his bank accounts. The critical problem here of course, was the absolute sanctity of diplomatic accounts. Getting hold of Valerian's financial details was akin to getting into the Queen's bedroom uninvited.

"Possibly," Euan was thoughtful. "The Russians usually bank at Barclays, and Barclay's systemic security is piss-poor, relatively speaking. Want me to see what I can find?"

Only as long as there is absolutely no track back to you or this department." I rested my chin in my hand. "See if any large sums of money have been transferred recently to other British-based accounts, especially any with a connection to Wales. Let me know as soon as you find anything."

"Will do. What's the timeframe?"

"I would prefer immediate intel," I said. "Ms Blackwater needs a plausible scenario before the end of the day."

"Oh damn, she would, of course. Right-ho. I'll see what can be done."

Leaving Euan and his little team of electronic _wunderkind_ to their explorations of Berners-Lee's new World Wide Web and its digital access was a sensible approach. Of course, not everything was accessible through these linked computer terminals, not yet, though it was obvious which way things were going to go. I made a mental note to set out departmental security protocols. if we could get to things on the outside, others might equally be able to get to us in the same manner. I made a second note to have both MI5 and MI6 as well as GCHQ briefed on the security drawbacks on the new digital web. Not for the first time, the thought occurred to me our department could do a lot better at coordinating the various intelligence services as a kind of clearing house, rather than having to treat each one individually. I wondered why Sir David hadn't done anything about it before now, but then, he'd been dealing with a very great deal of work.

My mobile rang again and I wondered if it was my cutter at Poole's, asking about the new suit. It was not he, but my father.

"Mycroft, how are you, son?"

The only reason either of my parents called during the working day was because something had gone wrong. After this morning's meeting with Uncle Rudy, such a call from my father seemed entirely too coincidental.

"I'm well, Dad. Is there a problem?"

The long pause at the other end confirmed my misgivings. The longer the silence, the bigger the problem. Had Uncle Rudy changed his mind and told them ... but no. There had to be something else, something other than ... my stomach sank. "Is it Sherlock?"

"It is, I'm afraid." My father sounded drained. "He's disappeared from his college in Cambridge. His tutor rang earlier today to say your brother wasn't in his room and to see if he'd taken ill and had come home without letting anyone know, but your mother and I've not seen him since he went up at the beginning of term."

_Damn and blast. What now brother?_

I squeezed the bridge of my nose in frustration. I could have done without any more family dramas today. "He's not been in touch with me at all. Does he have any friends he might be staying with? Someone in Cambridge?" I wracked my brain for potential contacts, anyone who might have more intimate knowledge of my brother's whereabouts. My immediate suspicion was that he had gone off on some drug-spree; of course I couldn't say anything to my father until my fears were confirmed.

"There's nobody in particular that we know about, Mycroft. Your mother and I are a bit worried that your brother's off on one of his escapades, you know what Sherlock's like."

_Only too well, Dad._

I was clearly expected to do something, though I wasn't entirely sure what. Until I knew one way or another where my brother was, there was no point having my parents upset.

"Leave it with me for a while," I said. "I might be able to track down someone in his study group, or someone who might be privy to his plans. We all know how absent-minded he can be when there's a bee in his bonnet."

The relief was clear in my father's voice. "Thanks, son. Let us know whatever you find out: you know how your mother worries about Sherlock."

And there, in a single sentence, was the story of my life. Not once had my mother ever expressed such concern about me either as a child or an adult, however, even at nineteen, I would not class my brother as an adult. The problem was I really didn't have time to go searching for Sherlock until I'd delivered the information Lucy Blackwater needed. I decided to delegate and once again found myself wishing for a private assistant who could at least begin working on the initial stage of things while I got on with more critical matters. In the interim, Euan seemed the most likely candidate to be able to assist me. Having him demonstrate the cleverness of new internet might be just the thing. I buzzed his phone a second time.

"Give a man some time, Mycroft!" Euan sounded most indignant that it hadn't been more than fifteen minutes since we last spoke.

"I have another little problem for your wonderful computer platform." I kept any trace of impatience from my voice. "Can your team conduct two separate searches simultaneously?"

"The more the merrier," McKay sounded happier when he realised I wasn't hounding him. "What do you need?"

"My brother Sherlock is finishing a chemistry degree at Cambridge and his tutor is trying to reach him urgently. I need to find him as soon as possible to relay the message, but he's not in his rooms. He may be in Cambridge or elsewhere. Can your system track him?"

Euan was silent for a few seconds. "I should imagine so," he said thoughtfully. "Our computer system can now tie into the national CCTV network, plus we also have access to the Five Eyes system as well, if needed. Can you give me a half-hour?"

"That would be fine," I said. And it would. I'd have the Zubov analysis ready before then and could take a look at the computer disk Uncle Rudy had given me. I also needed to complete the morning's tasks, release the film to the British Film Board for certification and then tackle the afternoon's intel traffic. Once I'd cleared the deck of all minutia, I could devote a little time to considering my sister's situation. I had already decided to go and see this Sherringford for myself, though organising such a jaunt might take a little spadework.

First things first. In a matter of minutes, I'd cleared my desk of the morning's detritus, sent the film on its merry way, written a cheque to my tailors and requested everything the department had on the Diogenes Club, on one Rudolph A. H. Holmes and on the Helsinki summit proceedings. If I needed backup from Sir David then I had to know what he was doing and how critical his presence was in Finland. Farming out all but one of my tasks to the appropriate people, I decided to get to know my uncle a little better before I absorbed anything his little silver disk might want to tell me. I was starting to know myself, but in the words of Sun Tsu I also needed to know my enemy or, in this case, my uncle.

Clearing my thoughts, I digested the entirety of the Zubov file in less than ten minutes. It was a good summation of the man's life, of his time spent both in the East and the West. Not content to be in the thick of Soviet Politburo machinations, Valerian seemed to pop up joyfully in the most unexpected places and ways. Give him a piano and a glittering coat and he'd have been a second Liberace. He'd been briefly married more than twenty years ago, though there were no record of children and apparently no extended relationships of any kind since. The file had nothing to say about the man's sexual preferences, but he seemed to follow the usual heteronormal behaviour required by the rest of his comrades.

A brief notification popped up on my computer screen to say an internal file had been sent to me from Euan McKay's section. Hopefully, this would be the Zubov financials I wanted. It was. After only a quick scan, I was decidedly impressed at the quantity and quality of the details Euan had managed to unearth. Not only bank statements, but also a list of payments in and out. It was entirely possible that Zubov had other accounts, but this one would do to be going on with. My eyebrows rose of their own accord when I read of some of Valerian's payments; he was certainly playing both sides of the ideological field, with funds going to both appropriate and vastly inappropriate destinations. Unions, political activists, Claridges and Harrods. Was it possible someone in Moscow had decided to end such extravagances? The records were informative but not yet bringers of clarity; I would have to dig deeper. Thank God for technical research facilities; at least I wouldn't have to go to Wales to get any of this.

"This is excellent information, Euan," I buzzed his phone again. "Is there any way you can add names and destinations to any of these smaller transactions?"

" _Christ_ , Mycroft ... you'll be asking for the life of my first-born next."

"All in good time." I was smiling faintly as I used the inadequacies of language to lay bare how the life and, more importantly, the death of Valerian Zubov was going to affect the political status quo. I had reached the stage of outlining likely responses from the various key players when a further file arrived. Without stopping the Zubov analysis, I glanced swiftly at the incoming data. It was Euan's trace on Sherlock. As there was little more I could add for Lucy Blackwater until I received further data on Valerian's financials, I completed my current paragraph before opening my brother's file.

Apparently, Sherlock's studies in Analytical Chemistry were all but successfully completed: only his finals to go and he'd be welcomed into graduate research with open arms. This was excellent news that would provide great relief to my parents. My brother didn't seem to have many friends, though there was a small biochemistry group of which he was a member. The chief interest of the group appeared to be destructive, involving minor explosions and the misuse of domestic chemicals. I sighed. _Typical Sherlock_. The group also ventured out upon what might be best described as research 'expeditions' into the surrounding countryside to catalogue the great range of British soils I wondered for a moment if Sherlock might have an interest in pursuing some form of land management once he had left university, but no: that would be far too plebeian. So far, the group had been to Loch Lomond in Scotland, Truro in Cornwall, Canterbury and Norwich in the east. There was an electronic diary entry from one of the group dated two days earlier with only the word 'Monmouth' and nothing since.

My phone buzzed.

"Sorry," Euan was cheerful with success. "There's not much more I can tell you about your brother's location, except to say someone looking very much like him was spotted on Saturday just gone, in a nineteen-seventies Kombi van heading west from Gloucester on the A48. I'm sending you one of the camera images to be sure it's him."

There was the blinking of a new file awaiting my attention and I opened a grainy grey photo of a dark head of hair inside a vehicle. Expanding the magnification I stared at the wind-tousled mop of my younger brother. I sighed again.

It looked like I might be going to Wales after all.


	2. Keeping it in the family

Ordinarily, of course, I wouldn't have gone. If our department required an operative for some legwork – not by any means an everyday occurrence – then it certainly didn't need to be me. And while there were practical arguments for me to stay in London, there were three even more compelling reasons that had me in the back of a department car at six o'clock on a wet and foggy morning, flying down the M4 towards the rush hour queue for the Severn Bridge. The new bridge would be significantly quicker when it was finished but in the meantime we would be delayed by the traffic whether I liked it or not. As might be imagined, neither the weather or the need to go to Wales in the first place had put me in the best of moods.

Firstly, my brother, whom I could quite cheerfully have throttled at this point, had definitely crossed the border from England with a group of his college associates. Supposedly they were on a 'dig' just outside of Monmouth, though exactly what that meant was anyone's guess. Our parents were worried about him and, as always, I was the hapless go-between. If I ever discovered he'd been using these little adventures as a cover for drug-taking, I wasn't sure what I would do. I had no real proof he even _took_ drugs on a regular basis but then I had watched him buy some that day we were both in Henley and by now, I trusted my instincts: baby brother was up to something. Sherlock might think he could hide aberrant behaviour, but I had spent the last three years being trained by experts to see the things clever people tried to hide. My brother was indeed clever, but he wasn't always terribly smart. Monmouth wasn't exactly on the way to Merthyr Tydfil but for my own peace of mind, I planned to find my brother before I went anywhere else.

Ostensibly, the main justification for me heading to Merthyr was to gather some on-the-spot intel on Valerian Zubov's last hours. The analysis I'd created yesterday for whichever minister ended up using it was complete, save for a few salient details; why had Zubov gone to Wales in person; if he were meeting someone, then who was it, what for, and, most important of all, how had it all gone wrong? Yes, I could have left it to the police, but they had a luxury of time that I did not. The more I considered the situation, the more it became certain that first hand intel would enable me to produce a far more strategic analysis. Once I knew the _who_ , I could confidently extrapolate the _why_.

The final reason, even though I barely admitted it to myself, was _Sherringford_. I'd spent the best part of the previous night digesting the information my uncle provided and, to say my eyes were opened was something of an understatement. I had no idea such a place existed: it was something Hollywood might have dreamed up and I was struck with a ghastly sort of fascination as I waded through all the grotesque and outlandish details. No wonder Rudy had sworn me to secrecy; no wonder Sir David had not mentioned anything of this to me before. Sherringford was considered an acceptable place of incarceration only because it operated beyond, or perhaps I should say 'above' national law. Widespread knowledge of Sherringford's existence and _raison d'etre_ would chill the heart of the average person on the street. There was a solid moral argument against detaining anyone in such places ... _but then_ , of course, there were individuals like my sister Eurus, facing either this place or an unconscionable alternative. After wrestling most of the night with such an impossible choice, I eventually surrendered to the compromise, though I think a part of me died a little in the doing of it.

Uncle Rudy's silver disk informed me that Sherringford was on a tiny, remote Ministry of Defence island off the coast of Wales, approximately twenty minutes away from Merthyr by fast helicopter. If I were asked which of the three reasons most drew me to Wales on this damp autumnal morning, I'm not sure which I'd have chosen: my professional duty, my concern for my brother or guilt over my sister's imprisonment. By the time I emerged from my personal fugue, the Jaguar was already across the bridge, heading north towards our first destination.

Euan had managed to track down a professor in the Physical Chemistry department at Cambridge who had authorised my brother's group to go on their little expedition. I'd been advised the quartet might be found at the confluence of the rivers Wye and Monnow, in a small area of meadow adjacent to the Monmouth allotments. It seemed there were three distinctly different types of alluvial sandstone at that precise spot. Euan told me the professor had become quite enthused about it. As the location was on the A40, my driver was able to park the car in a convenient lay-by. Stepping out into the early morning sunshine of that late October day, my mood had not improved and I swore I would dunk Sherlock in the river if he gave me so much as an uncooperative look.

Treading carefully so as not to soak either my shoes or the bottom of my trouser legs, I followed a well-defined path around the edge of the allotments, heading on a downward gradient towards the sound of running water. Two tents were staked out at the riverbank in front of an aging VW van; a thin stream of smoke twisted up from a campfire. I heard laughter and boisterous voices and suddenly felt incredibly angry, though at whom or at what, I wasn't sure. Taking a deep breath, I rounded the van ready to offer my unwilling greetings and to have a bit of a chat with my brother.

Three scruffy teenagers sat around a tiny barbeque. My unexpected presence stopped them in mid-laughter, as they stood warily, astonished to see a Savile Row suit in a small Welsh field. It was the silence that brought Sherlock out of one of the tents. He was as dishevelled as the others.

"My God," his tone mocked me. " _You?_ In a _field?_ Who died?"

Saying nothing, I straightened my shoulders and stared at him, though I could feel a scowl shaping my face. My expression must have spoken volumes as Sherlock returned my gaze with a sudden, unexpected sharpness, his brow furrowed.

"Has anyone actually ... died?" his question was unnaturally slow and tentative, as if he were considering the real possibility for the first time.

"Not the point, Brother." I brushed a speck of invisible Welsh dust from my sleeve. "I'm here because our parents are frantic due to a phone call from your tutor, who advised them you'd vanished from the face of the earth with your finals approaching. You know how they are – surely you could at least have advised _someone_ about your plans?"

Digging a small mobile phone out of his jeans pocket, he brandished the thing at me. "No signal," he said. "I was already here when I realised it wouldn't work."

I sighed heavily and rubbed my eyes. I'd done my bit. I'd seen him, I'd told him and now I could get on with the rest of my day. "Do as you wish," I said, already turning to go.

"Wait!" Sherlock dived back into the tent before emerging with a small overnight bag and a shoebox that clinked. "Samples," he said when he saw me looking.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Clearly, my brother was heeding my words and wanted to be taken to a place where his phone could work in order that he might call our parents.

Calling an offhand farewell to his associates, Sherlock was already ahead of me on the upward path to the road.

"Take me wherever you're going," he said, meeting my eyes. "You wouldn't have come all the way to Wales in order to have me phone mother, so you're here for a work-related purpose, and given the kind of work that you do, you could probably use my help, one way or another. So, take me with you."

"You have no idea what kind of work I do," I snapped, walking swiftly up the path. "Nor are you in any position to assist me in any way at all. I'll take you to the nearest town from where you can phone the parents and then make your own way back to college."

"I'm probably dropping college." Sherlock was still walking ahead of me at this point and I couldn't see if he were taunting me again or if he was serious. "I'm going to be a detective, or something along those lines,"

I stopped walking and glared at his back. "Don't be ridiculous," I retorted. "Of course you're not dropping college. You've nearly finished your degree."

Several feet ahead, Sherlock turned and looked back at me. "Yes," he nodded. "I've learned all I can learn from Cambridge, so there's little purpose in my continuing."

" _That's not the point, Sherlock!_ " I could feel my temper mushrooming. "Our parents have supported you all the way through your studies, the very _least_ you could do is _damn_ _well finish them_!"

My brother's expression changed, became more thoughtful. More searching.

"Something's upset you," he said. "Something else, I mean," he added. "Not me."

I stormed back to the car, saying nothing at all in case I said too much. I swear I would have driven off without him but Sherlock held the door open and slid into the back seat with me, hugging his little box to his chest.

"This isn't like you," he said, looking at my face again. "Are the parents truly okay?"

Asking the driver to continue towards Merthyr, I took a very deep breath and closed my eyes, calming my inner furore. My brother was being more than usually insightful and I had given my word to Rudy. I exhaled in a rush.

"A colleague of mine died yesterday," I said slowly. "He died in a mine, here, in Wales, which is why I've come to make inquiries in person." It was the truth, after all.

" _Ah_ ," Sherlock nodded, looking at my clothes. "Hence the suit."

Yes, my nice new suit. Perfect for a funeral. I might not wear it again.

"But there's something else, isn't there?" My brother could be an irritating and persistent pain at times. "Something more personal."

I had to put him off the scent; I could not marshal my thoughts with him digging away at my secrets. "I'll allow you to accompany me if you promise that afterwards, you'll go straight back to Cambridge and take your finals. Once you've got your degree, it's entirely up to you what you do. Do you agree?"

"You'll let me come with you until you have all the information you need?" Sherlock's tone was a little sly which should have given me pause but by now I just wanted him to shut up and let me have some peace. Besides, there was always the possibility that he might spot something before I did; he was increasingly proficient in observation and deductive reasoning.

"As long as you keep out of the way, you might be able to blend in with the locals, looking like that." I glanced at his t-shirt, worn jeans and muddied footwear. "Though the very first thing you're going to agree to do is phone the parents or I'll throw you out of the car here and now."

"God, _yes_ , okay, _I will_." Sherlock heaved a sigh and turned to stare out of the window, before quickly turning back. "So who died and why are you involved?" he asked.

Sighing myself, I pulled a small photograph of Zubov out of my breast pocket. "Russian and a long-term irritation for the _politburo_. Found dead at the bottom of a deep mine in Merthyr Tydfil yesterday with a single bullet wound to the chest. We had no idea he'd even left London, let alone come to Wales." I rubbed my eyes feeling suddenly exhausted. "Despite being unorthodox and thumbing his nose at the system, he was one of the few remaining philosophers to come out of Russia," I said. "I liked him a great deal."

"So you were friends?"

I couldn't tell which my brother found the most implausible: that I had liked Valerian or that anyone might like me.

"Of a sort," I acknowledged. "Only as far as our relative positions permitted, but despite his faults ... yes, he was a friend."

"And he was killed ... hmmm." Sherlock linked his fingers, resting the tips against his chin. "Was it a professional job?"

"I've got no idea yet," I said, thinking back to the sketchy post-mortem summation I'd received. "Still waiting on a full autopsy. There had been a single bullet wound to the upper chest but no other obvious signs of violence. One of the reasons that decided me on attending the scene in person was to form a clearer picture of what might have happened."

"Are the local police involved?" Sherlock's tone told me his opinion of police efficacy.

"Only insofar as we needed to keep the surroundings free from interference. This is a diplomatic case, meaning that while the outward handling of the situation will be done in the full light of day; all meaningful particulars will be dealt with through diplomatic and political channels."

"Which means what?"

"That both the Home and Foreign Office will attempt to blame the other for the death of a foreign diplomat on British soil, and it might get rather sticky."

"But you work for the Home Office, don't you?"

"Indirectly, yes. Which is why the Foreign Office will fail in their attempts to lay the blame elsewhere." I nodded slowly, ruminating on the loss of sleep currently being experienced by the staff in other departments. "It's a bit of a mess all around, to be honest. Rather than seeking the reasons behind Zubov's demise, the vast majority of those involved will be happy confirming his death wasn't their fault."

"And what are your other reasons?" I felt his stare on the side of my face. "You said that _one_ of the reasons you were here yourself was to get a clearer picture. What were the other ones?"

 _Shit_.

I turned slowly towards my brother and looked him straight in the eye.

" _You_ were the other reason, Sherlock." It was still the truth.

He held my gaze for several seconds before easing back into the upholstered seat and folding his arms. Whether he suspected there might be more to my presence here in Wales, he said nothing, for which I was quite grateful.

"Do you know if the wound was instantly fatal?" he asked. "If it were a planned professional hit, or if your friend was shot by someone even moderately used to guns, then it would have been a head-shot, surely? Unless he was shot by someone unused to shooting. Or from a great distance."

"Or by someone who hadn't planned to shoot him, which suggests perhaps an argument of some kind."

"Yes, but people around here don't usually go around armed, do they?" Sherlock frowned. "I mean, anything in a high-calibre rifle or an automatic is illegal anyway and everything else is licenced to the hilt. Do you know yet what he was shot with? A single bullet wound argues either a rifle or a handgun of some description ... did this Zubov chap happen to carry a gun of his own, by any chance?"

It was a very good question. Carrying a pistol of any description was frowned upon at this time and there were moves afoot to ban all handguns: anything to avoid the American experience. But policing the diplomatic community had always been a delicate matter of selective inattention, and the diplomatic bag was still sacrosanct. Almost anything could be brought into the country under diplomatic protection, why not a gun? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

If Valerian had indeed carried a pistol of some description, it would lend weight to the theory that he'd been involved in an argument which had turned violent, ending with him being killed by his own weapon.

"Perhaps, though there are other possibilities."

"We won't know though, until we get more details." Sherlock hummed to himself again, clearly turning over ideas in his mind. Bringing him along might not be such a bad idea after all. The car was making good progress and we'd be in Merthyr within the half-hour.

"If you rang home now, you wouldn't have to stop and find a public phone later," I mused, almost to myself.

"You know my phone won't work outside of a major town here in Wales." Sherlock made a face. "No network coverage."

"Not on your phone, no. But on mine you can," I said, handing him my departmental Nokia 2110, not due to hit the commercial market until the new year.

"This is rather nice," Sherlock was immediately enamoured of the compact black device. Can you get me one?"

"Sort out the parents and I'll see what I can do." I shook my head. All one needed to keep my brother happy was a new toy.

Ignoring his conversation with our mother, I considered the best way forward. I could not possibly include Sherlock in any official investigation though he might feasibly dig up some local colour: people who disliked officials might speak more readily to one of their own. Therein lay an immediate concern. I wasn't at all sure my brother could fit in, no matter what he looked like.

We drove through Merthyr itself and out a little further towards Aberdare where the pithead stood. Surrounded by green fields, the mine itself looked more like a small freighting yard than one of the deepest pits in Britain. There were a number of small groups of people milling around aimlessly, obviously waiting for more news: there would be no mining until the investigation was completed. As the Jag parked, I turned to Sherlock with a proposal.

"Wait until I go into the main office and then tag along with any of the groups. See what you can find out about the actual site where Zubov's body was found: was there anything unusual about it, that sort of thing. I'll see what information I can get out of the mine management in there." I nodded towards the red brick building. "We should meet back here in an hour; that will allow sufficient time for both our investigations."

"That should be ample time to find out a whole range of things," he said cryptically, combing his hair back with his fingers.

As I left the car and walked towards the mine's office buildings, I noted a second glossy government vehicle parked nearby and speculated who else had sent an emissary into the Welsh wilds. Closer to the glass-doored entrance of the general offices, I saw at least one car undoubtedly used by local police judging by the number of empty coffee cups in the back seat and the stretched-out radio cable in the front. I wondered who I was about to meet. Turning as I reached the door, I saw Sherlock drifting casually over to a few people standing idly by in the car park. He was wearing an old denim jacket on top of his untidy clothing and no longer looked remotely out of place. Time would tell if my brother was as good a detective as he imagined.

My mobile rang as I closed the heavy glass door behind me. It was Euan relaying the initial pathology of Zubov's post-mortem examination findings – diplomatic deaths on British soil were always dealt with swiftly. Valerian had been in full health despite his age and the cause of death was indeed a single gun-shot wound to the upper left chest. The bullet, it seemed, had nicked the aorta quite deeply, though it had probably taken him several minutes to die. If he'd been shot in the street, there was a moderate chance an immediate ambulance and emergency surgery could have saved him. If he'd been shot at the bottom of the mine, he would have been dead long before any help might have reached him. The site of the shooting was another piece of the puzzle I needed to discover.

 _But what was he doing down the mine in the middle of the night?_ Not only was it dangerous but it was also entirely against mine safety protocols. I doubted that Valerian would know enough of the lift mechanism to get down there himself, so the likelihood of him descending into the pit with either a close friend or an implacable enemy was looking increasingly plausible. Therefore, it was of utmost importance that I discover who it was he had come to meet here in Merthyr – had it been a political meeting or had it been personal? The political aspect seemed to be the better option as there was no reason at all for him to come all the way up here from London for a personal rendezvous.

There was an open door into a large meeting room to my left and a swift glance determined this was the central situation room. It took only seconds to pick out the local police detectives, the mine management and, over in the far corner, undoubtedly the passenger in the other government car ... I blinked with surprise. Looking swiftly away, I did my best to contain the tumult of abrupt questions flying around my head.

_What the hell was my uncle doing here?_

Introducing myself to the senior police office on site, I confirmed my identity and stated a desire to see the place of Zubov's death, as well as speak with anyone who saw him the night of his demise. While the inspector was clearly distrustful of my youth, he nevertheless provided a printed list of people who'd seen a man answering to Valerian's description at various times on the day before his murder, though nobody had yet come forward admitting to a late night assignation. I scanned the sheet of names, occupations and times each individual remembered seeing Zubov around the town. There was nothing overtly suspicious about any of the placed he'd been seen – a few retail shops, a café, a florist, a newsagent. Nothing dramatically untoward. I asked about being able to see the location where Valerian was found and was told an investigative group would be taking the mine lift down to the lowest workings in approximately twenty or so minutes and I was welcome to tag along.

I still found it droll that with one phone call I could have things arranged far more to my preference, but there was little point going in heavy at this stage. Nodding my thanks, I headed over to a table at the rear of the room holding tea and coffee. It was there than Uncle Rudy was patiently waiting. I had a thousand questions but only one that was critical.

"Are you following me?" I murmured under cover of making a cup of tea.

"Yes," Rudy helped himself to a biscuit. "I am."

I met his eyes and for a brief moment my anger rose for the second time that day, before sense prevailed. Rudy wouldn't be here without a very good reason, whether his intention was to follow me or anything else. Nor would he be doing this for his own gratification, as there were far easier methods of staying in contact if that was his intent. There was obviously some ulterior reason for him being here, some motivation above our familial relationship. He'd been told to come here ... to a meeting where he'd know it would be impossible to hide from me. Therefore he wasn't interested in hiding which meant Rudy was here for some reason beyond both of us.

_My uncle had been sent._

"Did Sir David ask you to come here?"

"Yes," nodding and brushing a crumb off his lapel, Rudy smiled faintly. "He did."

 _But why?_ If Bonneville had wanted information, he knew I carried my phone with me all the time, day and night, which suggested that contact with me personally wasn't what he required. Yet my uncle was clearly a trusted emissary of Sir David's and he'd equally clearly been told to bring me in on the Sherringford situation ... this suggested that ... _that Bonneville wanted me watched_. But why on earth did I need to be watched? I'd done nothing wrong ... _ahh_. A penny dropped.

"This is a test of some kind." I straightened up without waiting for Rudy's confirmation and looked around the room at the various little interest groups. The mine management stood on one side of the police and the union representatives stood by the door. The mine Health and Safety people were by the windows and some townsfolk with vested interests stood together by the long central table. As I moved away from the refreshments, I wondered exactly what I was being tested on.

A well-dressed man separated himself from the main group of management personnel and made his way over, looking between Rudy and myself, both of us tall and dark.

"Mr Holmes, is it? From the government? I'm Robert Thomas, General Manager. We shall have to look after you." The soft Welsh intonation and tentative handshake was offered first to my uncle who affirmed that indeed yes, he was Holmes from the government. I knew what was going to happen next but managed to remain solemn.

"I'd like to introduce my younger colleague if I may," Uncle Rudy was behaving outrageously, but the temptation was evidently too much as he nodded at me. "Mr Holmes. Also from the government."

" _Holmes?_ " Thomas looked swiftly between the two of us, confusion writ large on his uncertain expression. "Both of you are called Holmes?"

"Different departments," I assured the man, turning his elbow so that we were both looking across the room. "Can you possibly tell me who in this room was the first to find the deceased?"

"Er, that would be Johnny, _er_ , John Powell over by there," Thomas gestured towards an ageing ex-miner who had been kept on at the mine for reasons of sentimentality. That Powell worked in the mine in some capacity was obvious by the faint lines of coal dust etched into the wrinkles by his eyes. That he was no longer an active miner was indicated by clean, undamaged nails and the lack of callousing on his hands. That he remained on the mine's payroll out of sentiment was suggested by the man's somewhat asymmetrical stance from an old back injury. _Johnny_ must have been highly thought of to be given secondary employment when his was no longer able to mine coal.

"What does Mr Powell do now that he is no longer manages heavy work?" I scanned the room, seeking out friendships and power balances, truth-tellers and back-watchers.

"You know John Powell, then?" Thomas sounded uncertain and I had little time to put him at his ease.

"Not at all," I smiled. "He looks a little too old to manage mining, but if the body was found in the mine than Mr Powell must have permission to be there. What does he do?" I pressed for an answer.

"Night watchman, Johnny is these days," Robert Thomas pursed his mouth. "Normally everything is as quiet as the grave, but then ..." he paused awkwardly, realising his _faux pas_. "What I _mean_ is ..."

I stopped him with a tilt of my head. "I understand," I said. "Would Mr Powell usually take the lift down to the lower levels during the night?"

"Not as a rule, no," Thomas shook his head. "Not unless he heard something odd, like."

"Odd like the sound of a gun being fired?" I watched his expression.

"Well, yes. That would certainly do it, I would say, yes."

"Then let's see what Mr Powell says, shall we?" Not waiting for a reply, I made my way over to the ex-miner and smiled cordially.

"Did you hear anything odd that caused you to descend to the level where you found the body?" I asked, not bothering with an introduction. Having the General Manager at my shoulder served in its place.

"Indeed I did," Powell's eyes flickered over me before he glanced at his boss. "Even though most of the place is closed after eight at night, we still keep some of the machinery going, ticking over, like. Boilers, air extractors, that sort of thing. A working mine is never totally silent, like."

"And you heard ..?" I prompted.

"One hellish loud _bang_ is what I heard," Powell stood straighter, inhaling sharply as he recalled the experience. "Frightened me half to death if you want to know the truth, what with all the echoes and such. I went and checked all the panels to see if any of the warning lights were flashing red in case there'd been a collapse somewhere near the face, but nothing was out of order at all. I followed procedure and rang the emergency number for mine maintenance and there were a half-dozen mine engineers and safety inspectors here within twenty minutes."

"So there would be a record of the time you made the phone call?" I smiled, nodding acknowledgement of his actions, encouraging him to continue.

"Oh, by damn yes," Powell nodded fervently back. "One minute past one, it was. I remembered it special."

"And how long does it take for the lift to reach the level where the body was found?" I looked thoughtful at this point, carefully conveying a value of his knowledge.

"Normally, a full cage holds fifty men and all their gear, and it gets down to the active workings in about five minutes. The cage gearing is pretty quiet, but even though there was only a handful of us in it, we went down slower, like, checking for raised dust or other noises as we went, so we probably took well over ten minutes to reach the lower gallery."

"And what happened then?" I could feel my eyebrows rise to just the right level.

"Well, that's when we saw him, right there, lyin' dead on the ground with blood all over his chest. The safety lights stay on all the time, you see. He was impossible to miss lyin' there like that." Looking a little brave, Mr Powell waited for the inevitable question.

"What was he wearing?" I asked instead.

"Eh? Wearing?" Powell frowned. "He was in a suit, of all things," he shook his head. "A really nice suit, like he'd just been in a business meeting. Proper posh it was, except for all the blood, of course. We all rushed out to see who it was and all that, but it was clear right away he was a gonner. The worst thing was that he was still warm, like. If we'd been a bit quicker, we might have managed to do something for him. Dunno what, mind you, but we all felt bad about it."

 _And thus ends the life of a showman_ , I thought. Dying in a dark and lonely place like this was no way to live. If there were ever a moment when I might reconsider my chosen path in the world, it would be this one.

Thanking Messrs Powell and Thomas for their assistance, I excused myself from their presence, heading back to where my uncle was still holding court by the tea and biscuits.

"I'm not going to get to see what I need with everyone barging about in the mine," I spoke almost beneath my breath. "Now that you and I have been marked as government representatives, all we'll get is the sanitised version. Sherlock needs to be my eyes on this."

Making a small moue, my uncle shrugged. "If only your brother were here," he nodded sagely.

"He's out in the carpark, talking to some of the miners," I gave Rudy back one of his thin smiles.

"You brought Sherlock along with you?" Rudy's left eyebrow peaked.

"More like he brought himself as a condition of going back to university and finishing his exams." I shook my head. "Normally, I wouldn't consider letting him in any deeper, but it would be foolish of me not to use any available tools. I suggest you stay here and enjoy all the fun of the fair while Sherlock and I get the rest of the details I need."

Rudy looked at me for a long moment through slightly narrowed eyes before nodding decisively. "If your brother's in the vicinity, I'd like to say hello to the boy: he was a mere babe the last time we met."

"I'm sure we can arrange something when all this is done." I squeezed my uncle's shoulder and headed to the door.

The air was cool after being in the overheated and overfilled room and I took a deep breath of it, turning my head as I did, looking for unruly dark hair above a pale denim jacket. I needn't have bothered; Sherlock must have been waiting for me to come out and we both headed back to the car from our separate directions.

As soon as the doors were closed, I summarised the situation.

"Zubov was shot through the heart at one o'clock on Monday morning," I said. "He was still warm when a party of mine personnel found him, approximately thirty minutes later, although the ambient temperature of a mine this deep, even with air-conditioning, is usually around twenty-five degrees Celsius. He was wearing a business suit and no weapon has yet been discovered. They know I'm government, so I'm never going to be free of them now. I need you to get into the group going down to inspect the scene in the next few minutes: I need your eyes to see what I'll have no chance to see. If you're unwilling to do this, say so now and I'll try instead."

Sherlock nodded silently. "I already know where all the safety gear is kept. I can certainly join the group as a general helper," he nodded again. "Even the accent is easy," he smiled at that.

"Uncle Rudy's here," I told him. "It's a long story, but he'd like to meet you before the day's over."

My brother had assimilated all the other information without turning a hair but the mention of our uncle's name made his eyes widen.

"Then this situation is much more serious than I imagined," he murmured, leaving the car and walking swiftly towards the pithead buildings.


	3. Long live the king

As I watched Sherlock vanish into the tide of people moving towards the mineshaft entrance, my consideration of his last cryptic words was interrupted by my phone ringing. It was Euan McKay with three additional pieces of intel.

The bullet that had killed Valerian was of a surprisingly small calibre, most likely from a Russian PSM, a pistol usually reserved for high-ranking officers. Had it hit anything other than his heart or his brain, he would probably have survived. This gave weight to the theory that Zubov may have been shot with his own weapon.

Secondly, Valerian had at least _two_ personal bank accounts: one for his every day transactions, and a second, more private one, secreted away in an obscure building society, using his matronymic surname. It held an unexpectedly large sum of money. The only way he could amass such an amount would have been to arrange a series of payments through a third party. Any large direct payments made from his diplomatic income would have been immediately scrutinised. There was a great deal of money hidden away under an assumed name and I wondered how Euan had even discovered it.

"There was only one initial payment, a tiny deposit of fifty pounds, made from his main account to this second one, he made no others, not directly." Euan sounded almost blasé about tracking down the details. "You asked if I could put names and places to the separate transactions and I wouldn't even have looked at this one, not because it was a major transaction, but because his other transactions were usually a great deal bigger. I ran a bit of a search on it and got another financial deposit number, but it wasn't a shop or an hotel, which kind of piqued my interest and I dug on until I found the second account. He was definitely trying to keep it off the radar and he wasn't routing the money through other financial channels, so he must have been giving it to someone else to deposit for him. I wonder," Euan paused thoughtfully. "What Zubov was doing hiding that amount of cash from his Kremlin overlords?"

I thought for a second. "Can you tie the dates of payments from his main account to deposits into the secondary one?" If we could correlate Valerian's cash flow, then we might get a line on the third party, the person to whom Valerian had been giving the money to deposit. It might provide motive for murder – people would kill for a lot less. But why a building society? It was inconceivable he'd be after a mortgage, so what was the real reason? I frowned impatiently at my mental sluggishness. I should be seeing something, a pattern, _something_ , by now.

The third piece of news was potentially more concerning. Bonneville hadn't been in Helsinki since the beginning of September and it was now nearing the end of October, which meant he'd been incommunicado for almost eight weeks.

"When was Sir David's passport stamped out of Helsinki-Vantaa airport?"

There was a brief rustle of paper as Euan consulted his notes. "Friday the third of September, on a commercial British Airways flight. Departed Helsinki in the afternoon at ..." there was another pause. "Four o'clock, on a direct route. He came in through Heathrow customs at seven-thirty that night."

"On the third?"

"Yes," I could almost hear Euan nodding. "There's no record of Sir David departing Britain from any sea- or airport since then."

So, Bonneville had been back in the country for nearly two months and had not been in contact with me or anyone else in the department. This was puzzling, though not actually disturbing. He may simply have decided to take a long holiday – he was in his late seventies after all and had been working flat-out since May. If he'd been ill or in an accident, department protocol dictated that I be informed immediately. As I'd heard nothing on that front and as my uncle had clearly been in touch with Bonneville in the last few weeks, then it was fairly safe to assume Sir David was simply taking some time off.

"Do you want me to see if I can trace his movements since he returned?"

"No. Let the man have some peace. He'll let us know his plans when he's ready." At least I knew now that Sir David was safe, wherever he might be, though if I couldn't find him, then I wouldn't be able to call on his advice if things went south. I wondered when he and Rudy had last met. There was something cooking between them that I wasn't ready to examine too closely just yet. Perhaps once I'd resolved the Zubov shooting. "Let me know as soon as you've got any more on that second bank account."

"Will do, Boss. Have fun in Wales."

I rolled my eyes but said nothing. Best ignored, after all.

My driver had gone to find some lunch and I sat in the back seat of the Jaguar, staring up at the roof, thinking about secret bank accounts and midnight assignations; about unpredictable relatives and about needing to come up with the right answers for everyone. I kept returning to a mental image of Valerian as a circus Ringmaster, whirling around, cracking his whip to make the audience shriek and scream and look exactly where he wanted them to look, then changing out of his bright red coat and being just another man in the dark.

I wondered how Sherlock was getting on. I wondered what my uncle had been instructed to do by Sir David. I wondered what Eurus looked like now, at seventeen.

Checking my watch, I saw that Sherlock had been gone for thirty minutes. Given that the mine lift supposedly took a minimum of five minutes to get down to the lower workings where Zubov's body had been found, and then the same time returning, and giving everyone in the party sufficient time to have a pointless poke around the scene, I doubted they'd been much longer. Exiting the car, I watched the faces of people standing at the edge of the carpark, those not invited to join the inspection party but huddling together, their expressions and body language telling me they were waiting for the second boot to drop. I wondered what they knew but were not saying. I also wished for a cigarette. Not that I'd developed anything as tiresome as a habit, but sometimes the act of smoking seemed to centre my thinking.

Sherlock trudged across the tarmac, wearing a bright yellow safety jacket. hands deep in his pockets, face deep in thought.

"Well?" I watched my brother's expression. Saying nothing, Sherlock handed me a half-folded piece of notepaper. Carefully lodged inside were two torn and crushed rose petals. Red rose petals. Though damaged, they were still quite fresh and faintly damp to the touch. I sniffed them briefly. The chain of evidence had been completely lost by this point, so I saw no problem in taking them.

"Everyone was looking at the floor and those were together above shoulder height, caught in some wire mesh near the cage entrance." He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. "Not the usual kind of thing one expects to find down a coal mine next to a corpse. And he definitely died there as opposed to being dumped there. It was impossible to tell much more: the entire scene had been virtually wiped clean by the time I got there."

Red rose petals. A mysterious meeting in the middle of the night. A secret stash of money. Lucy Blackwater's words returned: _he had chums in the local community_. I felt something take shape in my thoughts.

"I need to speak with a local florist." I said, nodding to Sherlock by way of thanks. "Would you like to stay here and meet Uncle Rudy?"

"This close to finding out who did it?" my brother was already half in the car. "Are you mad?"

Fortunately, my driver was approaching. "Back to Merthyr main street," I directed. "When you see the florist's, please pull in."

###

"'Is this the one you want, sir?" My driver slowed the Jaguar.

It had taken less than ten minutes to return to Merthyr and drive slowly down De Clichy Avenue. Just past St Tydfil's Market, there it was, _Fflur's Flowers._ It had been on the list of places Valerian had been in on Sunday.

"Yes. Wait here please." I stepped smartly onto the pavement and scrutinised the establishment's façade. Judging by the sparkling clean windows, the abundance of fresh blooms and the artful displays in the window, business was good. There was a flat above the shop, no doubt used by the owner. Having discarded the bright yellow safety jacket in the car, Sherlock was back to his shabby denim, which I grabbed as he made to dash past me.

"No, Sherlock _. I_ have to do this. If you wish to accompany me, then you can't speak, not a single word: you have no recognised authority to do so. Do you understand? The most you can possibly be in this instance is a witness."

My brother's scowl was the stuff of legend, but he could see I was deadly earnest.

"I mean it, Sherlock. If there is to be any future legal investigation involving this establishment or any person therein, I cannot risk the ground being muddied for even the most well intentioned of reasons. If you are unwilling or unable to control yourself, please stay out here, I doubt I'll be long."

After heaving an extravagant sigh at the injustices of the world, my brother nodded, waving me before him with a small flourish of his hand. I smiled fractionally as I turned away; at least he was learning a little self-restraint, which was an entirely good thing in my book.

The interior of the cramped shop was packed with all manner of blooms, heady with the fragrance of lilies, tuberose, freesia and, of course, _roses_. I turned my eyes to an elaborate display of them ranged along one entire wall: great swathes of white, pink, tangerine and, most importantly for my purposes, several large buckets of dark red roses. Without hesitation, I leaned down and inhaled their faint perfume. Straightening, I glanced at Sherlock's face, as he stood, silent and brooding, just inside the front entrance.

"And good afternoon to you. Is there anything in particular I can help you with?" The lilting accent belonged to a young woman, no older than Sherlock.

"I'd like to speak with the manager, if I may?" I smiled encouragingly. "I'd like to discuss some very specific flowers with her."

"Oh, I'm afraid Ms Morgan isn't very well at the moment," the young assistant was momentarily flustered. "I'm sure I can help you though, if you care to explain what kind of flowers you were after? I'm Lisa, the apprentice, you see," she shrugged in quick relief, back on more familiar ground.

Silent for a moment, I shook my head slowly, apologetically. "No, I'm sorry. It really needs to be with the manager. Is she in hospital?"

"Oh no, nothing that serious." Lisa the Apprentice shrugged again, though it was more subdued. "She was just taken ill yesterday, very suddenly like. She's upstairs, so I'm really sorry but you can see that there's only me to help you at the moment."

" _Ah_ ," I said portentously, as if this was a difficult situation. "Unfortunately, when I am called upon to organise flowers for such an important occasion, I'm afraid I cannot possibly agree the financing with anyone but the manager herself." Smiling mildly, I nodded at the naive and terribly innocent Lisa. "Apologies for taking your time." I turned, as if to leave.

"Wait! Hold on a minute, will you?" the flustered look was back. "I'll just pop upstairs like, and see if Ms Morgan can possibly come down, if only for a few minutes, will that be alright?"

"I'll wait here." I knew my London tailoring and educated vowels assured her I would do no wrong. With a jerking nod, she disappeared into the rear of the shop.

"Those are the same roses as the petals." Sherlock spoke quietly at my shoulder.

"Yes," I nodded. "The scent is identical; though it's conceivable the same grower supplies several local florists. However, since this is the only one on the main street, it's the only one I need to consider at this point."

"The only florist able to be seen by a stranger driving up the main road?" Sherlock murmured, raising an eyebrow. I blinked an affirmative.

"The proprietor taking ill yesterday is something of a coincidence." I scanned the rest of the shop even as I started bringing new facts into alignment with all the others.

A throat being cleared behind me announced I was being granted an audience. I turned, taking in the appearance of a small woman of middle years, her swathe of dark hair just beginning to show grey. Her fine skin was very pale and her eyes were red and swollen. She was without cosmetics, though she had made an attempt to neaten her hair. Under most normal circumstances, she would be considered quite attractive.

"Good afternoon, I'm Fflur Morgan, the manager." The warm contralto voice was soft but steady. "I understand you want to discuss the arrangement of flowers for an important social occasion? I apologise for my appearance," she smiled wanly. "I'm not feeling well at the moment, but I'm sure I can organise whatever it is you'd be wanting. Is it for a local event?"

I looked at her ravaged eyes and grief-stricken face and knew myself to be an unmitigated bastard. I spoke softly.

"It's for the funeral of Valerian Zubov."

For a few seconds, there was no reaction other than a frozen widening of her eyes as any remaining colour fled from her face. Almost in slow motion, the florist seemed to crumple downwards, sagging towards the floor as if all strength had left her body.

" _Oh my god!_ I'll go an' call the ambulance!" Lisa the Apprentice looked aghast and dived for the phone, only to find my brother in the way. He didn't touch her but shook his head. " _Wait_."

"Can we possibly get Ms Morgan a seat?" I asked the room at large as I scooped the lady up carefully from behind, raising her to an almost standing position.

"There's chairs in by here," Lisa, almost as white-faced now as her manager, pointed to a small space in the rear of the shop with a table and a couple of seats. "I still think I should call for an ambulance though."

"Probably the flu," I said. "Some hot tea might be best."

"Right then, I'll go and make some," the young woman's eyes flicked between me and her employer. "But if she gets any worse, then I'm calling 999, just so you know." She disappeared into a small kitchen out of hearing range.

Settling the lady into a chair, I apologised for my lack of subtlety. "You are going to have to talk to someone about what happened and I will be more understanding than the police."

"Are the police here?" a shaking hand brushed loose hair from her eyes which darted between Sherlock and myself.

"Not yet." I steadied her until she sat a little more upright in the chair. "I know more about your situation than you might imagine, but it would be best if you tell me what happened, in your own words."

The look she gave me was part distress, part fear.

"I'm not the police," I said. "I work for the British government and it's in everyone's interests to have this situation resolved quickly and simply. I need you to tell me what happened on Sunday evening and how events ended in the mine."

"Who _are_ you?" There was more depth in her voice, though her eyes radiated dismay.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," I said. "I need you to tell me how Valerian Zubov died two nights ago."

"Here's the tea. I put sugar in it." Lisa the Apprentice plonked down a steaming mug of some vaguely orange liquid, staring at me all the while.

"Thanks, Leese." Already starting to recover, Fflur Morgan was clearly made of stern stuff. "Can you go and take your lunch break now. I need to discuss some things in private like with this gentleman."

Both Sherlock and myself were regarded with distinct suspicion by the apprentice florist. "Are you sure you want me to leave you alone with these two?"

"Yes, don't worry luvvie; I'll be right as rain in a minute. Off you go now. See you in a bit. Thanks for the tea."

At the sound of the front door reluctantly closing, she sighed. "Put the 'closed' sign in the window, please," she said. "I'd rather nobody else came in." She looked at me. "How do I know you are who you say you are?"

Pushing the mug towards her, I dug out my wallet and extracted a business card. It was plain white, with my name and job title _Deputy Director_ on one side and several London phone numbers on the reverse.

"You may phone any of these numbers and have them verify my position."

"And who's he, then?" she cast eyes towards Sherlock.

"An independent witness who will say nothing of this discussion at any time in the future."

"Did you ... did you know Valerian?" she asked hesitantly, still unsure if I was what I claimed.

"I've known him for nearly three years," I said. "We occasionally played chess."

"Val liked his chess, so he did," she nodded almost to herself.

The use of a familiar diminutive spoke volumes. I pushed the hot drink closer to her clenched fingers.

"Ms Morgan, while there is still time, please tell me what happened between you and Mr Zubov. There is a limit to my ability to assist you if I do not possess all the facts."

"He asked me to marry him, you know." The words escaped almost as a whisper. "He used to get away from London whenever he could. He used to tell his people he was servin' the cause up here in Wales, helping the new Socialists deal with the capitalistic bureaucracy of the pit closures, like."

"And you helped him put the money into the building society account, didn't you?" It had to be her; there was nobody else it could have been.

Ms Morgan nodded briefly. "We met the very first time he came to Merthyr. He saw the shop from the street and called in to buy some flowers for the wife of a union official, and we hit it off right away. We were going to get a mortgage and buy a bigger place," she looked around the cramped walls. "He loved it up here, you see. Said it reminded him of home. His family comes from the Urals, you know."

"And what happened on Sunday?" I prompted.

"Val came up from London to attend one of the union meetings at the pit. But he left early in the afternoon to see me. He said he had something very important to tell me, but he had to get back to the meeting, and would I drive over and meet him in the mine carpark after ten when everyone would have gone home. He said he'd be waiting for me and he bought a big bouquet of red roses, said it was for one of the lady organisers. They had to be roses, see? He said the women expected it, said he had to keep playing his role until we could get away, like."

"What happened when you went to meet him?" I felt we were approaching the crux of the matter and while I was impatient, I was reluctant to push her harder.

"Val was there, like he said. There were still a few people around: a couple of cleaners tidying up after the meeting and old Johnny Powell mooching around the place, so Val said let's go down the mine, that nobody would be down there this time of night."

"How did he manage to operate the lift by himself?" I knew mine lift operations were a specialist job, not everyone would know how.

"Well, see, his family were all miners in the Urals. He said he'd grown up with coal and besides, someone had let him operate the cage once before, for the hell of it, so he knew exactly what to do."

And I knew what a showman Valerian had been. Anything to make a grand entrance. Taking his lady friend to the bottom of a mine for a romantic tryst sounded exactly his style.

"What time was this?"

"It must have been getting on for midnight by the time we got into the cage. Val made the thing go ever so slow like, said he didn't want any noise at all, so he kept it slow. I was surprised how many lights there were on, but he said this was normal. It took ages to get to the bottom, but it was lovely and warm down there, and ever so peaceful."

"What happened then?"

Increasingly miserable, Ms Morgan took a deep breath. "He pulled out one of the roses he'd bought earlier; he'd had it inside his jacket. He went down on one knee and handed me the rose and asked me to marry him. I was a bit taken aback like, I mean, I guessed marriage might be on the cards, but not just yet, see? Val said we'd need to go back to Russia and be married over there first so everything was all above board and proper, and then we could come back here and do a normal church weddin' if that was what I wanted." Her voice trailed off.

"And then?" I spoke gently. We were so close.

"And then I said that now wasn't a good time, and that I couldn't simply drop everything and go with him to Russia just like that," Fflur Morgan stopped, shaking her head. "He got more and more insistent, really worked up, saying we had to do it now because his people were starting to clamp down on his trips, and that if I really loved him, I would do it. He said if he was willing to defect to Britain, the least I could do was go with him to Russia to see his family one last time." She stopped again as slow tears left her eyes.

"He wouldn't listen," she whispered, looking at me in despair. "He kept on saying if I loved him, I'd do this, and I tried to tell him I had the shop and the big orders for Christmas about to come in, and Lisa and everything else to manage and that I couldn't just drop the lot on a whim like that."

"And then?" I held my breath.

"And then ... and _then_ ..." She was weeping openly now. "He pulled out this gun, see? It was only a small thing, black it was; he'd had it in his pocket. Val waves it in the air and says if I won't marry him, then it wasn't worth living, and ... and he went and pointed the thing at his chest, and he was shouting and waving the thing around, so I went to get back in the lift. The next thing I knew, the gun had gone off and there was blood all over his hands and his chest, and his face was as white as a sheet. He told me to take the gun and get back up to the surface, that he knew others would come because of the noise and he didn't want me to be found down there with him.

I said not to be so stupid, that I'd go and call and ambulance, but the phone beside the lift wasn't working, and so I said I'd go up and get help. He said he didn't want me to come back down and to go home and wait. So I got back in the lift and pressed the green button like he told me, and the lift went up. I was still holding the rose and it caught the edge of the barrier as the cage doors closed."

"What happened when you got back to the surface?" It didn't really matter, whatever she said. I knew her story was the truth: it had been one of Valerian's more flamboyant moments.

"I heard Johnny Powell shouting something about going down to the lower gallery to find out what the bang had been, but he wasn't anywhere near the lift, so I ran away in the other direction and got into my car. I knew then that Val would be getting help, see? I just did what he said and I came home and waited. And then yesterday, I heard someone had died down the mine _and I knew it was him_ ..."

"Do you still have the gun?"

"No. I threw the thing away, out the car window on the way back from Aberdare. It went down into one of the steep river valleys; I've no idea which one. I couldn't bear to see it."

Again, there was the ring of truth. And now I had the who and the why and the how, it didn't seem to matter. I sat back and watched the lady collect herself, her face flushed from weeping, her eyes infinitely sad.

Was there any point bringing in the police? I had absolutely no doubt Fflur Morgan had told me the truth as she saw it, though, knowing Valerian Zubov, with all his grandiose gestures, I can't say I was even terribly surprised. I pondered the options.

"Nobody else knows about the building society account," I said. "Except you. I assume it's in joint names?"

She nodded.

"Then if you want to keep the money, say nothing about it to anyone."

Looking up at me as I stood, the lady seemed bewildered. "Is that it? Is that _all?_ "

I straightened my shoulders. "If the police ask if you knew Valerian, tell them he was a good customer and always bought flowers when he attended meetings at the mine, but say nothing more than that. If they come back with more detailed questions, give them my card and have them contact me. I'll be monitoring the situation and can handle any complications. In the meantime, tell people you're ill and stay ill for a week or so. Get your assistant to purchase cold and flu medications from the nearest chemist. Say and do nothing unusual and you should be able to weather the storm."

"But what about Val's funeral ... about his family?"

I walked towards the door. "You never knew him," I said, turning my head. "Remember that."

Sherlock was already standing outside the door. The afternoon was coming in chilly and I pulled on my leather gloves.

"You really have no moral compass at all, do you?" His light blue eyes stared accusingly at me.

Looking beyond my brother's shoulder, I saw a familiar black car pull into the market carpark, though how he knew we were there was anyone's guess.

"Come and say hello to your uncle," I began walking the few yards uphill without waiting for a reply.

Watching us, Rudy left his own vehicle, heading towards a nearby coffee shop. It was a semi-empty, itinerant sort of place. This time tomorrow, nobody would remember any of us being there. I ordered three black coffees and took them over to a table away from the other patrons.

"Did you resolve the situation satisfactorily?" Uncle Rudy looked at me appraisingly.

"I can complete my analysis," I nodded, sipping the weak brew.

"He is morally bankrupt." Sherlock folded his arms and looked mutinous. He had wanted to play detective with the police and I had spoiled his game.

"When I was at Cambridge, I remember studying hard about this time of year for my finals," Rudy said, examining his coffee with mild distaste.

"You never went to Cambridge." Sherlock snapped, continuing his sulk.

"Perhaps not, but I happen to know there's a train leaving the Merthyr station in twenty minutes that will get you back to halls before midnight, if you catch it." Reaching for his wallet, Rudy plucked out two fifty pound notes, laying them on the table. "Bon voyage, nephew."

Glaring disgust at the both of us, Sherlock grabbed the money and stalked out of the café. I hoped he would do the right thing, but neither of us were children anymore.

I could feel Rudy's gaze on me.

"Sir David sends his regards, Mycroft. He said to tell you that the big desk is now yours and to consider him formally retired," he paused, tasting his coffee. "Well done, my boy. We were waiting for something like this to happen to see how you managed."

"I passed the test?" I said, thinking about Sherlock's little box of samples still in my car, of Eurus's life without life, of the red nail varnish on my uncle's finger.

"With flying colours," Rudy smiled unreservedly. "The king is dead, long live the king," he paused. " _Director_."

###

It was only later, as I waited in a deserted field some miles beyond the town, that I thought about the changes I would make. I'd promote Euan to my assistant for a start. It would be a good beginning.

The distant sound of a helicopter approached.

**The End**


End file.
